


Aftermath and Consequences

by lanri



Series: Unseen [26]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Blindness, Gen, Grand Arena sequel, Idiot brothers, Unseen 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:27:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2093976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanri/pseuds/lanri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing’s really okay when Dean’s going to hell and Sam can’t stop it. Unseen ‘verse, post-AHBL, kinda sequel to “Grand Arena”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath and Consequences

“Easy, Sammy. C’mon, just stay in bed for the day.”

Sam groaned as he woke. He could smell the coffee though, and made grabby hands in Dean’s direction.

His brother sighed. “Insatiable,” was muttered, but Sam got his cup of coffee.

“What time is it?” Sam muttered, ignoring the pain his back as he sat up fully.

“Eight."

“And you’re up already?”

“Brand new start on the day,” Dean said cheerfully, not fooling Sam for a second.

Sam scrubbed a hand across his face, reaching up and feeling his hair—bird's nest, as usual. “What’s the plan?”

The other bedsprings groaned. “We could just hang out.”

“Or find a hunt,” Sam said.

Dean sighed. “Do we have to?”

“Saving people, hunting things,” Sam parroted at his brother. “Ring any bells?”

“Yeah, yeah. But if I only have a year left . . .”

“I’ll get you out of the deal,” Sam said sharply. He carefully set his coffee down on the nightstand. “Don’t act like I won’t, because I will.”

“I know you will.”

Sam knew when he was being patronized and scowled.

“Want me to brush your hair for you?”

“Dude, shut up,” Sam made his way to the bathroom and shut the door behind him, focusing on breathing. It had been a whole week since the demon’s plans had been set into motion—and foiled—and somehow the pain in Sam’s back would not go away.

“Hey, you want the bagel I got you?”

“No, thanks,” Sam replied. He went through his morning routine, carefully shaving by touch, combing his hair, and getting dressed.

“Sam, you have to eat something,” Dean insisted as he came out of the bathroom.

“I’m not hungry,” Sam stated.

“Yeah, well, I don’t want you starving. You did this after Jess and Dad, don’t think I didn’t notice. Just eat the bagel.”

Sam glowered, but took the proffered food.

“You need a haircut.”

“I get that you’re trying to distract me from hunting, Dean, but it's not going to work, no matter how hard you try to go domestic.” Sam tried to hold onto some of his anger and annoyance but it was quickly sliding into amusement.

“Well you do. Your hair looks stupid.”

Sam felt a flash of hurt and turned away. Dean had never made fun of Sam’s looks before—it wasn’t like he could verify whether Dean was telling the truth or not—so he must’ve been pretty on edge to start there.

“Sam, I didn’t mean it.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m going to call Bobby.” Sam dropped the bagel and grabbed his phone from where he had left it the night before, quickly leaving the room and walking down the hall until he was hopefully out of Dean’s earshot.

“Sam.” The older hunter’s voice was resigned. “No, I haven’t found anything.”

Sam gripped the phone tight enough that he thought he heard something crack. “Bobby, you’re my only source on this,” he said desperately. “I can’t do proper research on this, internet sources are unreliable, and I can’t, I can't lose him.”

“I know, Sam. I’m doing my best.”

“I’m sorry, I know you are.” Sam forced himself to calm down. “Let me know if you come up with anything.”

“Will do. Stay safe, you idjit.”

* * *

Dean was going to Hell. Literally. Every time he let his guard drop, it suddenly sang through his nerves, that this was it, one year until eternal damnation.

He was so terrified, and he couldn’t do anything about it.

He could, however, pretend for Sammy’s sake.

Dean heard the rushed conversations on the phone, the out-of-the-way visits to professors and the few older hunters out there who knew enough to lore to possibly help.

Dean turned a blind eye. Couldn’t hurt, right? At least it made Sam feel better.

Somehow, though, everything was worse than it ever should’ve been. The demon was still at large, and they were even farther from killing it, though they did have Colt, with one bullet left.

Yeah, fat lot of good that would do.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Sam?” Dean looked up from the TV to find Sam rubbing his mouth, a nervous gesture he hadn’t had before he died (Dean’s heart automatically jumped at the thought before settling down).

“What do you think Yellow-eyes is planning?”

As usual, his brother’s thoughts somehow managed to coincide exactly with Dean. Along with the visions, Dean sometimes wondered if Sam had managed to pick up a little telepathy.

“I dunno, man, I just hope his attempts to get the devil’s gate open are screwed up for good now.”

“They’re not, though. We still have the Colt.”

Dean turned to survey Sam fully. “What are you saying?”

Sam laced his fingers together. “I’m saying we melt down the Colt.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Sam didn’t say anything, just kept his head facing Dean’s direction.

“You’re serious.” Dean gaped in disbelief. “Sam, you know that’s our only weapon against him.”

“Azazel is powerful, Dean. Powerful enough that it could be relatively easy for him to get his hands on the gun again. There are no wards strong enough, no way of telling when or how he’d come for it. What’s worse—one strong demon roaming the earth or his entire army?” Sam argued.

“And it’s our only chance to kill him.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Uh, yeah Sam, we do.”

“There are powerful exorcisms out there, the versions we’ve used aren’t exactly the best. We just have to find the right one,” Sam insisted.

“It's a slim chance, Sam! You should be the one wanting to keep the gun anyway, to try and barter me out of the deal or something idiotic, anyway,” Dean snarled.

Sam went still and his nose twitched, a sure sigh of guilt.

“I tried that. Didn’t work,” he said dully.

Dean, gobsmacked, opened and closed his mouth several times without being able to say anything at all. “When did . . . how . . .“

Sam shrugged. “Summoned a demon inside a devil’s trap. Tried to barter. Didn’t work. Maybe it would with Azazel, but I doubt it.”

“You . . . when?”

“Middle of the night.”

Dean bit his lip to stop himself from swearing. He hadn’t even heard Sam leave, and what could've happened while he was out—

“Sammy, I get that you have to break this thing on your own, but don’t . . . don’t. I have to know where you are.”

“Well, you gave up that right when you bartered away your soul,” Sam snarled.

Silence filled the spaces between them, and Dean didn’t know what to do.

“That was . . . I didn't mean it," Sam whispered, and Dean decided he needed some space of his own.

“I'll be back late tonight, don't wait up,” he told Sam, shrugging on his jacket and snagging the keys.

Sam twitched like he wanted to reach out, and Dean wasn’t sure whether he was glad or upset that he didn’t.

* * *

“I melted the gun.”

“Without me.”

“Yes.” Sam held himself stiffly, waiting for the backlash.

“Fine.”

“I—wait, really?” Sam came to a shuddering halt.

“Whatever, Sam. Just . . . I don’t care. Do what you want.”

“I found a case, too,” Sam added tentatively, after a pause.

“Fine, then.”

Seconds later, and Dean’s heaving breathing had settled into sleep, while Sam was left distinctly unsettled.

He spent the rest of the night using his system to do online research about the house that was supposedly haunted.

Dean still gave him the cold shoulder by the time morning and the car ride rolled around. Sam told him the information about the case—haunted by some kind of poltergeist since the 1900s, no real accidents except for a few frightened realtors and kids until a recent accident where a teenager got trapped for three days due to a dare—and Dean grunted in acknowledgment but that was it.

Sam squirmed from the guilty feelings but didn’t break down. He had been right to melt down the Colt. It was the only fail safe.

“Right. Big grey house outside of town?”

Sam nodded. They had been driving for approximately 33 minutes—Dean must’ve been going faster than he’d thought.

“Okay. Have the hex bags?”

Sleepless nights meant that Sam was well-prepared. He handed them over.

“Wait here.”

“No, wait, Dean—“ Sam started, but his brother was already gone. Sam swore and levered himself out of the car, pulling out his cane with him. It would be stupid to go in the house with him, they had established early on in hunting that Sam was only a liability in cases where the supernatural could control the environment surrounding them.

Still, Sam got out of the car, hovering at the entrance of the house. He could just barely hear Dean’s footsteps on a set of stairs—going to one corner of the house to set up the hex bags and prepare the banishment.

Sam began chanting the spell from where he stood on the porch. The porch counted, he hoped. Dean knew it too, but he’d be out of breath from running around.

He heard Dean yell in pain, and frantically kept going with the rhythmic spell. He should just have one hex bag left, right?

There was no sound from the house. Sam kept chanting as he knocked open the front door and went in. His cane caught on a rug, and Sam yanked it free as he finished his spell.

“Dean?” he called anxiously. “Dean?”

“Sam.”

Sam carefully made his way further into the house. “Is it gone?”

“Yeah, just . . .” Dean coughed. “Wedged in here.”

“Wedged in where?”

“A closet.”

“Right. Keep talking.” Sam slowly made his way across a detritus-covered floor until he hit a hollow-sounding door. “This you?”

“Yeah. I think there’s something outside that’s blocking it, do you feel anything?”

“Mm. Bookshelf. Hang on, I got it.” Sam grunted with effort, quietly thinking that he might be able to use telekinesis but not willing to try. He lifted the wooden structure up and over, dropping it heavily. “You out?”

Dean’s voice came from right next to him and Sam jumped. “Nice. Let’s go.”

“Wait, Dean.”

“What.”

“Earlier. You—I—I’m sorry. I don’t want to be fighting with you. Please.”

There was a pause that had Sam on tenterhooks, but finally Dean sighed. “Yeah, Sam. I don’t wanna fight either. Just . . . no more stunts with demons without me, got it?”

Sam bit his lip. “Not if I have a chance of getting you out of the deal. If you don’t know, then it doesn’t screw up the deal.”

He heard a growl of frustration and Dean huffed, “fine, then promise me you’ll get Bobby for back-up. Give me something here, Sam.”

“Okay, promise. I’ll have back-up.”

“Fine.”

It was anything but fine, but Sam held his tongue.


End file.
